Three Years After My Son Died, His Apartment Was Full of Strangers

"Pamela, let me explain."

I glared at him, clutching my son's memorial tablet to my chest as I headed for the door.

I shook off his grip. Ignored him calling after me.

I stepped into the elevator.

Pressed the button for the lobby.

The stale breath I'd been holding finally left my lungs.

I needed his explanation.

But not now.

When I reached the ground floor, Julius hadn't followed.

I sat in my car, forcing myself to breathe.

No wonder Julius had never wanted me coming to the wedding apartment.

He'd told me not to keep torturing myself with memories. To let go for my own sake, and for our son's.

I'd taken his words to heart.

When I missed my son, I'd just sit in the car downstairs for a while. Never going up.

He hadn't been trying to spare me the grief.

He'd been trying to keep me from discovering Beulah, hidden away inside my son's apartment.

For the third anniversary of my son's passing, I'd originally wanted to keep things simple.

But Julius said I should give our son a proper farewell. That only by letting go could I find peace in my remaining years.

I did as he said.

Today, I'd come here intending to take one last look at the apartment. To truly say goodbye to my son.

I never expected what I'd find instead.

My phone kept buzzing.

Julius, calling over and over.

I declined the calls. After a while, he seemed to lose patience.

The calls stopped.

Thirty-five years of marriage, and I had never once doubted him. Even our friends praised us as the perfect couple.

After our son died, Julius worried I might do something rash. He took time off work specifically to stay by my side.

Now it all made sense. That leave wasn't for me or our son.

Beulah and her child had just moved into the apartment. He needed time to help them settle in.

The text messages kept coming.

"Pamela, let's sit down and talk about this. Don't do anything rash."

"Beulah says if you don't make a scene, she's willing to let Myron call you his godmother."

"Pamela, believe me. I had my reasons."

Reasons.

What reason could possibly justify moving his mistress and her illegitimate child into our son's apartment three days after the funeral?

What reason could justify deceiving me so seamlessly, for so many years?

Back at home, I looked at the family portrait hanging on the wall.

All I felt was mockery.

If I calculated backward from that child's age, then at the time Julius and I had posed for this photo with our son, the affair had already begun.

I sank onto the couch and forced myself to think clearly.

What I needed to determine was whether Beulah was merely occupying my son's apartment or whether she had actually taken ownership of it.

I had paid the down payment on that apartment with my personal savings.

After our son's accident, Julius pressured me into using the wrongful death settlement to pay off the remaining mortgage in one lump sum.

I dug through our files, searching for the deed.

I found it in a dusty box.

Owner: Pamela Mason.

Seeing my own name, I exhaled with relief.

But even holding the deed, I still wasn't at ease.

I called the property management office.

"Hello, I'd like to confirm who's listed as the owner of unit 601."

I heard the click of a keyboard on the other end.

"One moment, ma'am. Let me pull that up."

"The current resident of 601 is a Ms. Beulah Henson, and the registered owner is also Ms. Beulah Henson."

The woman's voice hit me like a sledgehammer.

"That's impossible. Are you sure there isn't a mistake?"

A few seconds of silence.

"One moment, ma'am. Let me double-check."

"No, ma'am, the records are correct. Our system shows Ms. Beulah Henson as the owner. The title was transferred in December 2023. Ms. Henson holds full ownership of the property."

Two sentences, and they shattered me.

Less than a month after my son's death.

The apartment I had bought with my own savings. The mortgage I had paid off with my son's settlement money.